Louis waited in the lobby of Arnold Gladstone’s office. He paced near the couch, stopping to stare at each black-and-white photograph on the wall. A man in an oil field, the massive pumps leaning into the earth behind him. Factory workers holding rags and hammers, standing around giant silver vats. 

‍

He’d been summoned by Mr. Gladstone, CEO of Zenith Energy, to discuss a project — an investigation into a private family matter. Louis had investigated things like this before. It was something that wealthy people like Mr. Gladstone hired him for from time to time, and it almost always ended exactly how you’d expect. Women with long, tan legs cheating on their ancient husbands. Adopted children stealing money from their trusting grandparents. Mr. Gladstone hadn’t wanted to discuss anything over the phone, so he offered to fly Louis to his office for a face-to-face. So here was Louis, strolling through the scrapbook of Zenith, the cold, stale air conditioning flowing through plastic plants and across the shiny linoleum floor. 

‍

Finally, and thankfully, he was called into Mr. Gladstone’s office by a spindly, pale woman named Henley. Mr. Gladstone’s office was nearly empty, except for a pile of boxes in the corner of the airy concrete room. A man stood up from behind a large, rectangular desk and strode over to shake Louis with two hands. He cupped one over both of their hands, as if to bless it. 

‍

Mr. Gladstone stood with a straight back and jutted his sharp jaw toward Louis. His eyes thinned as he smiled, revealing crisp, bright teeth on a clean-shaven face. He was middle-aged, maybe forty years old. He had emerald green eyes and smelled like mint. When he spoke, he rounded out each word with a slow intention, arching an eyebrow as he smiled, like a friendly villain. 

‍

“Mr. Redding, I’m utterly delighted to meet you. There’s been a lot of talk about you, you know,” Mr. Gladstone said, guiding Louis to a leather chair in front of the massive block. 

‍

“Well, I’m glad we could make this happen. I’m eager to hear more about this mysterious project, to be frank. Could you tell me about it? I don’t want to waste your time, Mr. Gladstone.” 

‍

Mr. Gladstone delicately placed two hands on the table in front of him, glancing up through his eyebrows. “I appreciate a man who wastes nary a second of precious time, Mr. Redding. Yes, of course, let’s get down to it.” He pursed his lips and took a quick breath in and out of his nose. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small photograph, sliding it across the table. Louis leaned over. The black-and-white photo was of a little girl, sitting on the porch of what looked like an old wooden shack. She had long, light brown hair and dark eyes, and she was holding a half-blown dandelion in her hands, as if the photo had interrupted her in the middle of the wishmaking act. 

‍

“Her name is Amelia. She vanished from her family farm...a long time ago. It is believed, in our family lore, that she was taken, kidnapped by a vandal or a- a roaming band of gypsies or—” 

‍

“What year was this?” Louis said, taking the photo from the table and examining it more carefully. It was thin and frayed on the edges like bible paper.

‍

“This was in 1816. She was eighteen years old, Mr. Redding. Let me ask you, who does that to a child? Who has it in them to, to—” 

‍

“Mr. Gladstone,” Louis interrupted, “I’m sorry, I just want to make sure I’m understanding correctly. Are you hoping to solve a 200-year-old murder? And this is a family member?” 

‍

“Mr. Redding, it is imperative that we find out what happened to Amelia. You see, she went missing. We don’t know what happened to her, and I refuse to believe it was a murder until it’s proven to me, to my family, by you, my good man.” His smile whipped away from his face. “Please, help us. It’s...time....” 

‍

“I understand, I really do. Family is important, and so is closure, but this is out of my realm, Mr. Gladstone. There’s no evidence, no witnesses. In all honesty, this is a job for someone with a historical research background, not a private investigator.” 

‍

“Mr. Redding, I know what this looks like, and I know how hard it must be to put yourself in my shoes, but please, at least just take a look at the case. You’ll be paid regardless of what happens, and I’ll understand if you choose to walk away.” 

‍

Louis stood up and began to button his jacket. “I’m sorry Mr. Gladstone, I appreciate the hospitality and the opportunity, but I know obsession when I see it.” 

‍

Mr. Gladstone stood up, too, walking around the desk. 

‍

“I reached out to you specifically, Mr. Redding, did you know that? I had my assistant do some research on you, and I chose you because I recognize something in you.” 

‍

“What’s that?” Louis asked.

‍

“Hunger,” Mr. Gladstone said. He stood right in front of Louis now. Louis could see the outline of his own face in the glowing green eyes. “You’ve got the insatiable appetite, I can see it. It’s why you do what you do. I have it, too. That contagious curiosity that drives men like us to get what they want, to dig and crawl our way out of whatever we came from to get where we’re going.”

‍

“I’m good at what I do, Mr. Gladstone, because I know what loss feels like. I’ve seen how neverending it can be. I try to help people find the end.”

‍

“Then you know exactly why I need help, Mr. Redding,” he whispered. “This is the end.” 

‍

***

‍

Louis drove through the endless open fields of western Kentucky. It was dawn. He had flown in the night before and taken a bed in a hotel in Lexington called Saint Eve. Now, he slid through wide, green rows of soybeans and corn, looking out across the expanse for a line of trees that meant the Gladstone farm was near. 

‍

This place reminded him of his grandparents. They’d been farmers in Mississippi, breaking their backs for fifty years in the hot sun. He remembered visiting them when he was young. He would show up for a week, sitting on his grandfather’s lap as he steered tractors and helping shuck corn on wet summer evenings. His parents had sold the farm when his grandparents died. He’d never been back.

‍

The Gladstone farm was now a half-rotted frame of wood and brick, tucked away in a pocket of dense, overgrown grass. Louis walked around it, kneeling to examine a brick or two amongst the beer cans and paper bags and cigarettes. The porch where Amelia sat in the photograph was buried now under decades of debris. 

‍

He walked through the woods where Mr. Gladstone had described Amelia had been before she disappeared. It was densely shaded but warm in between the tall pines and ash trees leaning against one another in all directions. Louis walked through the brush, pushing aside thorny vines and waist-tall weeds. He tried to imagine a little girl wistfully galloping along the creek in the distance, wandering all alone under the green canopy. 

‍

There was a crack under his feet, and he felt his weight give out beneath him. He fell down a ravine, clawing at the clay and roots that slipped through his fingers until he landed flat on his back, his head slamming with force against some kind of rock. He lay there for a moment, grabbing the back of his head, trying to feel for blood or broken bones. Slowly, he managed to sit up and look around. He was near the mouth of a small cave. Looking up, he saw the broken wood planks and straw he had stepped on and caused his fall. He wiped the red dirt from his pants and ran his hands through the trickle of water near the cave’s opening. Just inside the cave, he noticed white scratches covered by slimy green-yellow algae. He dug his fingernails into the fungus and scratched it away. There was writing there, etched into the wall. The letters “AG” had been cut into the cold cave wall by something sharp. Amelia Gladstone, he thought. She’d been here. 

‍

It was getting dark. Louis made his way back to the Gladstone Farm, looking out once more at the old house before getting in his car and heading back to Lexington. As he drove off through the lumpy dirt path toward the main road, he thought about Amelia Gladstone and her hideout. 

‍

Why would someone kidnap an eighteen-year-old girl in the woods, and how was a body never recovered? Before he’d driven out here, Louis had researched the area and its history. The village of Eastgrove dated back to the late 1700s as a precolonial puritan settlement. At the time of Amelia’s disappearance, it only had about two hundred residents, according to early town records and local accounts. If someone took Amelia, and didn’t kill her, where did she go? The alternative had crossed his mind before, but with the odds stacked against solving an untraceable murder from so long ago, he turned to it again. After all, if she had gotten away, wouldn’t she be easier to find? 

‍

Louis scoured public records for the name Amelia Gladstone, spending hours in dimly lit basements that smelled like wet paper. He searched newspaper databases and public court documents for any trace of the name he now muttered to himself under his breath hundreds of times a day. Nothing. There were plenty of people named Amelia Gladstone, but none that were alive during this time period. He called up old cop friends, now retired with nothing to do but laugh and smoke in their La-Z-Boys. He called in favors with research departments and crime labs across the country. There simply wasn’t a way to find out what happened to Amelia Gladstone.

‍

Six months of painstaking inquisition had led to nothing but two letters in a cave in the woods of rural Kentucky. Louis sat in his apartment, theorizing wildly about a band of hooded, screeching child snatchers running through the trees, children in wagons. He thought of Amelia sitting on the porch with the flower, wishing for his help from the past. 

‍

He went to visit Mr. Gladstone. 

‍

Henley met him at the door, closing it softly behind her. 

‍

“Mr. Gladstone is in a delicate state, I’m afraid. He won’t be able to talk long, and he may not be up to discussing troubling matters,” Henley said, clearing her throat. “Please, let’s try not to work him up.”

‍

“What’s wrong with him?” Louis asked. “I wasn’t aware that he was ill.”

‍

“He’s recovering from a recent procedure. Nothing to be alarmed about, but he’s, rather, touchy at the moment, particularly on this matter.” 

‍

Henley led Louis into the nearly empty office. Beams of late afternoon sun shot in through the wall-length window and into more old photos that hung from the walls, causing slices of light to form on the floor as they walked. She opened a smaller door in the corner of the room that Louis hadn’t seen before. Maybe it had been covered by a bookshelf. 

‍

Arnold Gladstone was pale and leaned back in a hospital-grade gurney. There were thin, clear tubes that flowed out of his nose like tentacles into small plastic machines with lights and knobs on them. No longer the vivacious aggressive businessman he had met six months ago. He smiled at Louis as he walked in and tried to sit up out of his bed. Henley rushed over. 

‍

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Mr. Gladstone said. “These things make it look so serious. I’m done with resting for today” Henley backed away and glanced over at Louis. “Have you found her?” Mr. Gladstone said, his eyes desperate and round. He turned to cough into his sleeve, wheezing in between huge bursts. 

‍

“No, sir. Not yet.” Louis said. “I’ve tried everything I can think of, but all of this happened to long ago, I—”

‍

“Keep searching, Mr. Redding,” Mr. Gladstone said, pausing his coughing to look right into Louis’s eyes. “If anyone can find out what happened to Amelia, it’s you. Because of your eyes, remember?”

‍

“I remember.”

‍

“Good. Time is running out, Mr. Redding. We need to—” He collapsed back onto his back and launched into another coughing fit, this one more violent than the last. Henley rushed over again to Mr. Gladstone’s arm, turning to adjust one of the machines on a stand next to the bed. 

‍

“Mr. Gladstone needs his rest now. Mr. Redding,” Henley said without looking at Louis. “I would kindly ask that you see yourself out, please.” She twisted open a prescription bottle and shook out two large pills. She grabbed a glass of water and held them up to Mr. Gladstone, who was still heaving and sputtering into his sleeve. He pushed the pills away from his face, much to Henley’s disapproval. 

‍

Louis turned from the foot of the bed. “I’ll let you get some rest, Mr. Gladstone. Wishing you a speedy recovery. Don’t worry, I’ll be—”

‍

“It’s important that you don’t give up, Mr. Redding. My family needs this. We need to stop it from….happening...again.” He managed to squeeze in before he began coughing again. Henley pointed to the door and nodded her head in urgent frustration. 

‍

Louis walked out of the room and into the main office. He was almost to the door that led back into the lobby when one of the old photos on the wall caught his eye. He walked closer to take a look. It was black-and-white, but faded brown with the edges starting to tear past the frame. Squinting into the glare of the sunset, he saw a group of young men sitting on a fence together in a line, a cloth-covered wagon on the road before them. They all had distinctly old faces. The kind that, even if you colorized and changed their clothes, would stand out as from a different time, where people’s faces were a product of their era. As he scanned the men’s faces one by one, he stopped and gasped sharply. There, sitting amongst the young men was a man who looked exactly like Arnold Gladstone, as sharp jawed and handsome as he was now, coughing in the next room. 

‍

***

‍

Louis knocked on the door of Marcus Hampton’s apartment. It was late. An expert researcher and ex-cop, Marcus had helped Louis track down seemingly unfindable things, people and places. A tall, dark-skinned man with angry eyes and grey specks in his beard answered the door. He was wearing a full pajama set and was wiping his face when he saw it was Louis at the door. 

‍

“You?” Marcus said, squinting his eyes a bit. “Shit, come in I guess. You know what time it is, Louis?” 

‍

“Sorry for the late house call,” Louis said, entering the apartment. “I’ve got something kinda hot I need help with, and I’ve got...well, I’ve got nothing whatsoever, to be honest.” 

‍

“Look, I get you, no worries. Just gimme a second to get my shit together and slam some of this coffee, will ya? Make yourself at home in the living room in there, aight?” Marcus disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of glass clinking and cabinets shutting. Louis walked down the hall into the living room, past bookcases and filing cabinets that lined the stained white walls. What Marcus called a living room was a mostly empty room except for a fold-out couch, an office chair and an enormous desk in the corner with multiple monitors. He took a seat on the couch. 

‍

“Alright,” Marcus said, walking into the living room and plopping down into the chair in front of the computer. He swiveled around to face Louis. “What we gettin’ into this evenin’, Mr. Redding.” 

‍

“I’m looking for someone who disappeared a long time ago.” Louis handed Marcus the photo of Amelia. “It’s a long shot, and it probably won’t show anything, but do you still have access to that facial recognition software we used to find the Ferguson guy?” 

‍

Marcus took the photo and looked back at Louis. “This girl meant to have been killed? When was this taken?” 

‍

“I’m not sure when or how old she’d be, but this is the only photo I’ve got. My client thinks she was kidnapped somewhere in southern Kentucky. He just wants to find out what happened to her. Think you can help?” 

‍

“Let’s give it a whirl,” Marcus said, spinning the chair back around to his computer and obnoxiously big screens. He slipped the photo into a thin reader on his desk. A bright green light scanned Amelia’s face several times, and the image appeared on the screen before them. Marcus ran a search through a piece of software and scooted back from his desk. 

‍

“This could take a while. With so little search parameters, it’s gotta go through millions of variables to see if your girl could show up there… or not. You sit back and relax, I’ma go take my lil dude out to water the lawn.” Marcus grabbed a leash and walked out down the hall and out of the apartment.

‍

“Thanks again, Marcus,” Louis said. “I really appreciate this, man.” 

‍

“Hey, all good, my dude. Just buy me a beer later and we’ll call it even.”

‍

Louis watched the computer work. Thousands of pixelated faces blurred across the screen quickly and smoothly, their features blending and layering over one another for several minutes. Finally, the whirring faces came to a halt, resting on one face. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes looked hard, frozen dark pools sunken into a pale face. It was Amelia, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Louis leaned closer and scrolled through the information on the result. The year was 1909. Amelia would have been over a hundred years old at that point, but she looked like a woman in her twenties. 

‍

He inserted a hard drive into the CPU under the desk and downloaded the results, his knee twitching violently as he glanced from the monitor to the empty hallway and front door. Marcus would return any minute to find Louis tampering with his tech, and questions would ensue, he thought. Questions that could not, and should not, be answered until he knew more. There were soft clinks of the doorknob turning and the dog’s collar bouncing. Louis quickly removed the hard drive from the computer, cleared the search results and jumped backward onto the couch. 

‍

“Nothing?” Marcus said, unhooking his dog from the leash and looking sternly at the screen. 

‍

“Nothing,” Louis said. “Kinda thought that would be the case. This girl’s been dead a long time.” He heaved a pretend sigh and went to shake Marcus’s hand. 

‍

“Hmmm,” Marcus said, putting his hand on Louis’s shoulder. “You think you can really get away with this, don’t you?” He squinted at Louis. 

‍

“What do you mean?” Louis said, pinching the hard drive in his jacket pocket. “Marcus, I—.” 

‍

“You gon come up here and act like you need some scans just to pay your boy a visit?” Marcus let out a high-pitch laugh and slapped Louis on the chest. “Come on, man, you know I missed you, too. Bring it in.” He swallowed Louis in a giant bear hug. 

‍

Louis chuckled. “You caught me red-handed. It’s been too long.” 

‍

“You damn right it has! Shit, we needa go down to Hastings again like the good ol’ days. Different times, man. We all busy, I get it.” 

‍

“Different times, that’s for sure.”  

‍

***

‍

Louis paced in front of his dining room table, which was covered in photos and paper from the full report of the facial scan. It doesn’t make any sense, he thought. There wasn’t just one result. There were 11 matches total, each face only slightly different than the last. Amelia had shaved her head, dyed her hair, pierced her nose, lost weight, wore more makeup. She had looked different in each one of the photographs, but it was still her, no matter how much she tried to change. The eyes are what gave her away. 

‍

What bothered Louis the most wasn’t the faces, though. It was the years. 

‍

1909, 1928, 1942, 1947, 1960, 1978, 1982, 1999, 2004, 2008...2016. 

‍

She had started small. Pickpocketing and petty theft. She upgraded to armed robbery, auto theft, aggravated assault, high-profile bank robberies, cybercrimes against corporations. Each crime was committed by a different person. There was no Amelia Gladstone. There was Esther Jefferson, Penelope Porter, Lucille Hartford, and half a dozen others. The list went on. 

‍

Sprawled out in front of him on the table were photographs of different women, but the same woman. He pulled out the old photograph of Amelia that Mr. Gladstone had given him and held it close to his face. None of this made any sense, he thought. Amelia, the young girl sitting on the porch, had become something else entirely.

‍

He went to see Mr. Gladstone. 

‍

***

‍

Louis walked straight into Arnold Gladstone’s office this time, not waiting for permission. Blasting through the thick wooden doors, he held a manila folder with all of the Amelias under his arm. The office was empty. No more photos on the walls. No desk or chairs. The muted gray light filled the room from corner to corner. 

‍

Henley emerged from the door that had led to the inner room where Mr. Gladstone had been resting after his procedure. 

‍

“Where is he?” Louis said. “I’ve got something he needs to see.” 

‍

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. Redding.” 

‍

“You don’t understand. Something...unexplainable is happening. I’ve found—”

‍

“Mr. Redding,” Henley said suddenly. “Mr. Gladstone passed away two days ago.”

‍

The two stood silent for a moment. 

‍

“I’m not sure what to say,” Louis said. “I’m sorry for your loss. How did he..pass?” 

‍

“I’m sorry, but the nature of Mr. Gladstone’s condition is a private matter. Mr. Gladstone saw to it that you’d be compensated in the case of his demise. We’ll be sending over the final paperwork soon.” 

‍

“Look, there’s something going on here.” He knelt down, opened the folder and spread out the photos on the floor. “I found her. Well, traces of her. She used aliases, but it doesn’t make any sense. These years, and the way she looks. She never changed. It would make her—”

‍

“216 years old,” Henley said, unflinching, and without looking down at the photos. She held Louis’s gaze with a calm, cold hardness. “That’s enough, Mr. Redding. Security, please escort Mr. Redding from the premises.” 

‍

Two men wearing grey suits suddenly sprang from behind the door in the inner room. “Wait!” Louis said. “Who is she? You know who she is. Please.” Henley slid the folder out from Louis’s grasp and walked away toward the back door. The men grabbed Louis by his shoulders and pushed him toward the lobby. “Henley, who is Amelia! What is she?” Henley disappeared into the room. 

‍

He walked silently with the two men flanking him on either side, out into the lobby, down the elevator and onto the bustling street. It began to rain. 

‍

It’s happening again, Louis thought, but this time it was happening to him. People lose loved ones and never find out the truth. It eats them alive, and they blame those who weren’t able to help them. With Mr. Gladstone gone, and the evidence being withheld, Louis was the victim of the not knowing, of the impossible, unfindable answer he craved. 

‍

Several days later, Louis received a package from Zenith. There was a smaller envelope with a check made out to him for more money than he’d ever seen. There were binders of legal documents barring him from sharing anything about the project with anyone. Pounds of paper designed to scare him into submission. Insurmountable resources pitted against the only person who cared enough to understand the truth about all of this. One of the boxes contained a cardboard tube, taped up and capped at the ends with plastic coverings. He cut open the cardboard box. Inside was a small wooden tube with 5 rotating dials. Some kind of combination lock. A slip of paper fell from within the cardboard tube. 

‍

“Dear Amelia, here lies the end.”

‍

***

‍

Louis returned to the Gladstone farm. It was dusk now, and the damp, warm air sat still and heavy all around him. He walked slowly through the tall grass, out into the clearing near the forest edge. He was back at the beginning, where something, everything, had happened so long ago. 

‍

He arrived at the cave hideout, sliding down the ravine carefully this time. Crouching down into the covered stone, he traced his hands along the initials, AG. The cave wall felt cool to the touch, like the kitchen floor in summer. 

‍

Suddenly, from above him in the woods, a voice cracked through the silence. 

‍

“You should turn back now,” the voice said. It was a woman.

‍

Louis quickly leaned his back against the cave wall, peering out into the creekbed. 

‍

“Who’s there?” Louis said. “I’m just passing through.”

‍

“You know who I am,” she said. “You’ve been hunting me.”

‍

Louis walked slowly out of the cave, hunching down and trying to get a look at the forest path above. 

‍

Amelia Gladstone walked out from behind a tree, pointing a pistol at him. She had black, oily hair now, slicked back and tucked behind her ears. Her face was pale, and her sharp, white jaw jutted out beneath her eyes. Forest green and sparkling in the trees behind her. She wore a brown trench coat and combat boots. 

‍

Louis put his hands up. “Amelia, please, I don’t mean you any harm. I was working for Mr. Gladstone on a family project.”

‍

“Then you’ll have no problem walking away from all of this. This was never any of your or his business. Not then, not now.” 

‍

“Who are you?” he asked. “Where did you go all this time?”

‍

“If you keep digging around, you won’t like what you find. That’s a fact, Mr. Redding.” 

‍

“Who took you?”

‍

She scoffed. “I wasn’t taken. I left.”

‍

“I don’t understand. Why would you leave? Who were you running from?” 

‍

“Like I said, you don’t want to know. This is your only warning. Leave me alone, Mr. Redding, or this could get a lot more serious for you.” She turned to leave. 

‍

“Wait!” Louis said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wooden tube and the message it came with, wrapped around it with a rubber band. “This was given to me by Mr. Gladstone. It’s addressed to you.” He tossed the tube and slip of paper up onto the path. Amelia, still pointing the pistol at him, caught it with her other hand. 

‍

“It needs a five digit code,” he said. 

‍

Amelia looked at the note and twirled the tube in her hand, slowly. 

‍

“The old bastard finally figured it out,” she whispers under her breath. She stared at the slip of paper.

‍

“Figured what out? What does it mean?” 

‍

Amelia turned to walk away. 

‍

“Who was Mr. Gladstone to you?” he yelled.

‍

As Amelia walked away, her boots crunching the leaves on the path, she called back over her shoulder. “He was my son.” 

‍

Louis stood alone, staring into the forest canopy above, the creek water gently flowing beneath his feet.